Accustomed as he was to Time Police standardisation, Major Ellis regarded his new team with resignation. Two of them, Farrell and Lockland, only just cleared the minimum height requirement and Parrish, though tall, was slight. The traditional Time Police officer bulked himself out with long hours in the gym but these three showed no signs of even knowing where the gym was. Ellis sighed. The weirdo, the mouse and the playboy. However, as Commander Hay had said, only six months, and then they could all go their separate ways and Matthew Farrell would be safely ensconced in the Map Room, which was everyone’s goal. Including Farrell himself. All he, Ellis, had to do, was get them there.
He cleared his throat. ‘Right, Team Two-Three-Six. We’ve got one. Briefing Room 3 in ten minutes.’
Despite six weeks of basic training, and seemingly still un-aware that the correct response to any order given by a senior officer was, ‘Yes, sir,’ Parrish demanded to know what they had got. ‘Where are we going? How long will we be gone?’
‘Full briefing in ten minutes. Get your gear and be there, Parrish.’
‘I only ask because I have quite an important appointment this evening and . . .’
‘Be there, Parrish, or be on the end of my boot. Your choice.’
Ten minutes later in Briefing Room 3, Major Ellis called them to order. ‘Right. Pay attention. Something harmless for your first assignment. This . . . is Henry Plimpton.’
Activating the screen, he brought up a blurred picture of a plump, balding man in his early- to mid-fifties, peering amiably from behind thick spectacles.
‘He doesn’t look like a criminal mastermind,’ said Parrish, doubtfully.
Farrell stared fixedly at the wallscreen, giving it his full attention and saying nothing.
Lockland was busy scribbling in her notebook, a deep frown furrowing her brows.
‘I mean,’ continued Parrish, oblivious to Ellis’s impatience, ‘you expect a giant bald head, don’t you? And scars. And a signet ring with skull and crossbones. And an evil leer. And possibly a white cat. I’m not sure this one’s read the Handbook for Megalomaniacs. What’s he done?’
‘Well, if I can get a word in edgeways, I’ll tell you,’ said Ellis, and let the silence hang for a few seconds.
When he was sure he had their attention and that Lockland had stopped writing and looked up, he said, ‘Lottery ticket.’
Parrish raised his hand. ‘What’s a . . . ?’
‘Similar to a giant raffle.’
Parrish raised his hand again.
‘Shut up, Parrish.’
Parrish lowered his hand.
‘It was a stealth tax in the late 20th and early 21st centuries,’ said Ellis. ‘You bought a ticket – as many tickets as you liked, actually – and there was a weekly draw. A small part was set aside as prizes and most of the rest went to the government.’
Up went Parrish’s hand again. ‘So what was the first prize?’
‘Several million pounds.’
Even Parrish was rocked. ‘Wow. Why don’t we do that now?’
‘Well, money wasn’t worth as much then as it is now, plus the odds of winning were astronomical. You had more chance of being eaten by a dinosaur than of winning the big prize. And eventually people realised that a smaller and smaller proportion of the ticket money was being allocated to something that would benefit them and the whole thing fizzled out.’
‘But people still did it?’
‘It was a time of great economic hardship. Millions of people bought tickets in the hope of changing their lives.’
Parrish raised his hand. ‘But . . .’
‘Shut up, Parrish.’
‘I thought we were supposed to ask questions.’
‘You’re also supposed to be a Time Police officer – intelligent, loyal, dedicated and hard-working. How’s that working out for you so far?’
Aware that he was, once again, on a disciplinary charge for reporting in late, Parrish sighed heavily.
‘Problem, Parrish?’
‘Well, I was hoping for something a little more exciting. You know – tomb robbers, or someone trying to kidnap Genghis Khan or, you know . . .’
‘No, I don’t know. Enlighten me.’
‘. . . Illegal time travel. You know – a chance to kick some arse. I mean, a lottery ticket is hardly world-ending, is it?’
More silence indicated that it wasn’t just some hapless time traveller who was about to get his arse kicked.
‘If I might continue . . .’
Parrish indicated he might do so with his goodwill.
Taking a deep breath, Ellis soldiered on.
‘It would appear our Mr Plimpton has built something naughty, either in his spare bedroom or in his garden shed, and now he’s working the lottery ticket scam.’
‘Um . . .’ said Lockland, scarlet-faced, and hesitantly raised her hand.
‘You don’t need to do that, Lockland – just ask your question.’
‘Um . . . how do we know this, sir?’
‘Radiation signature. Homemade machines always have a radiation problem. Those unfortunates who manage to avoid our attention invariably die horribly sooner or later. Which shouldn’t be a problem – in a perfect world we could just leave them to glow in the dark and then expire – but the subsequent pod explosion could possibly level a small town. And, of course, their inevitably messy end rarely occurs before they’ve bounced around the timeline leaving chaos and disaster in their wake. Hence the need to get them out of circulation as quickly as possible. Our plan is to apprehend Mr Plimpton, locate his machine, identify the coordinates and send in a clean-up crew.’
Lockland’s head snapped up. ‘A clean-up crew? What for?’
Clean-up crews are bad news. They do exactly what it says on the tin.
‘To destroy the pod. To ensure no trace remains. Nothing that can be ever used again. Total destruction.’
‘And Plimpton?’ enquired Parrish.
‘We bring him back here and hand him over.’
‘And then?’
There was a pause. ‘Not our concern.’
There was silence in the room.
‘Did you not cover this in training?’
They nodded.
‘Then you already know. Time travel is against the law. It is our job to uphold the law. We arrest the perpetrators and bring them back here so the law can take its course. What will happen to Plimpton afterwards is not our concern any more than what happens to criminals after their trial concerns the civilian police. If he’s found guilty, then he will be punished according to the law. If he’s not, then he’ll be returned whence he came.’ He stared at them thoughtfully. ‘Should I be anticipating any difficulties?’